


Graffiti

by MooseFeels



Series: In the Garden of Your Love [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Human Castiel, gardener!dean, teenage cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prayer that sleeps beneath the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graffiti

Castiel is lying on top of him, his gentle hands wandering over Dean’s chest when he looks up at him and asks, “Where did your scar come from?”

Dean looks away from him, his green eyes nervous and sad. “It’s...it’s a long story,” he says softly.

“I have time,” Castiel answers. He does, too. The house is empty for the next week. The staff leaves at four every afternoon and he spends his evenings with Dean. Sleeps in his bed, tangled in his sheets and arms.

Dean worries with his lip between his teeth. “I...I’ve told you about Sam, right?” He asks.

Castiel nods. Dean has talked about Sam several times. He’s Castiel’s age and Dean thinks he hung the moon. Apparently smart and kind and clever and funny. He’d be jealous, but he’s Dean’s little brother, not some kind of competition.

“Sam and I, we grew up,” he pauses, frowning, “without a lot of stuff. Without anything. We lived out of cars and motel rooms. Dad was a uh, Dad is a bounty hunter.” He swallows and is quiet a long time. “We wound up in a bunch of places that weren’t...good places, okay? And I was eighteen and dumb and young and I’d had too much to drink and the guy he was,” he frowns deeper, harder. “He was going after Sammy with the...and I moved him out of the way.” He turns away. “I would have bled to death in that alleyway if Sam didn’t have such steady hands.” He laughs darkly. “It wasn’t anything we hadn’t stitched up before.”

The scar suddenly makes sense. The rough raised strip of it. The broadness of it, the thickness of it- it’s nonprofessional and unpracticed.

Castiel moves forward, closer to Dean, closer to Dean’s face.

Sometimes, Dean doesn’t look like a man. Sometimes, Dean doesn’t look older than he is. Sometimes, Dean looks like a little boy, lost in a department store, looking for someone he knows. Looking for a skirt to cling to.

His eyes are startlingly green. His skin is dotted freely with light freckles, like someone threw a spray of dirt over his nose. His mouth is fully, lips parted slightly, word he can’t yet say hung in their distance.

 _Innocent,_ Castiel realizes.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers.

“I have to protect him,” he says. “It’s my job.”

His voice is soft in the room, like the sound of the wind in the trees.

Castiel lays his hand over his scar and wishes, deeply, _fervently_ , like he’s never wished for anything in his life, that he could touch Dean and just _heal_ him. Make all his hurts and scars and pains go away. Make it so he laughs forever and smiles always.

Instead, he wraps his fingers through Dean’s and pulls closer to him. He nests into his side. He holds Dean.

Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his and softly bites and kisses at their fingers. He turns so that they face each other on the bed, on their sides.

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel repeats.

Dean blinks slowly and looks at Castiel like he understands but could never agree. Soon his blinks come closer and closer together and eventually he falls asleep.

And Castiel watches him sleep and thinks distantly of how much Dean makes him think of the crocuses in the spring. Of the bulbs that sleep in the cold earth for such a long time, until the sun comes up. He thinks of warmth and the softness of soil.

He thinks of small orange flowers amongst the last of the snow.

He thinks of _hope._

 

 


End file.
